Pray for the Dying

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Thanks, you’re a love.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m chief constable and you’re a constituency MSP on my patch. When are you seeing Joey again?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe next time we’re in the same city, maybe not, maybe never.’ His question took her by surprise; she returned the challenge. ‘When are you seeing Sarah?’

  His reply took one second longer than it should have. ‘Next time I pick up the kids.’

  ‘Sure,’ she sniggered, ‘sure. Bob, I didn’t get where I am by being stupid.’ She let her words sink in, realising that her shot in the dark had found a target. ‘But don’t worry about it, I don’t care. Whatever works for you, that’s fine by me. As for her, just you be certain that getting even with me isn’t her main aim.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ he said, ‘but let’s not discuss it further. Now please, let me speak to my team. I promise I’ll keep you informed, as far as I can.’

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate that.’ He thought the conversation was at an end, but, ‘Bob, one more thing. I don’t want to have to go back to Gullane again, ever. I’d like you to pack up everything I have there, clothes, jewellery, books, music, personal papers, everything that’s mine, and have it couriered through to my flat. Would you do that for me?’ She laughed, without humour. ‘What am I talking about? Would you do it for us? I imagine you don’t want me there again either.’

  ‘Of course I’ll do that. I’ll deliver them myself.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer, but no, let’s keep it impersonal.’

  ‘If that’s what you want, fine; I’ll do it as soon as I can.’

  He hung up, then dialled Lowell Payne’s extension number, ignoring the ‘call waiting’ light that continued to flash on his console. ‘I’m clear,’ he told his exec as he answered. ‘Ask Mann and Provan to join me. Have the sandwiches I ordered arrived yet?’

  ‘Yes, they’re on a trolley outside your door; and tea in a Thermos.’

  ‘Good. Listen, I want you to get on to the switchboard and tell them that from now on nobody gets through to me without being filtered through you; not the First Minister, not the Prime Minister, not even the monarch. Most of them won’t get through; whenever you can, please refer them to Bridie Gorman or, where it’s his area, to Thomson. Also I’ve changed my mind about having an office mobile through here; I don’t want one. You’ve got my personal phone number. If anything’s urgent and I’m not in the office, you can use that.’

  ‘Yes, Chief.’

  Skinner headed for the side door to retrieve the sandwich trolley; Lottie Mann and Dan Provan were entering through his anteroom as he returned. ‘Welcome,’ he greeted them. ‘Sit at the table.’

  He pulled the trolley alongside them, then poured three mugs of tea. ‘Help yourself to sandwiches,’ he said. ‘Sincere apologies for keeping you waiting so long, when you have other more important things to do. Bloody phone! Bloody journalists! Bloody politicians! The least I can do is feed you.’

  Provan grunted something that might have been thanks followed by a grudging ‘Sir’. The chief looked at him, pondering the notion that if he judged a book by its cover, the scruffy little DS would be heading for the remainder store.

  ‘How long have you been in the force, Sergeant?’ he asked.

  ‘Thirty-two long years, sir.’

  ‘It’s a bind, is it?’

  ‘Absolutely, sir. Ah have to drag ma sorry arse out o’ bed every morning.’

  ‘So why are you doing it, for what . . . fourteen or fifteen grand a year, less tax and national insurance? That’s all you’re getting for it in real terms. With your service, you must be in the old pension scheme, the better one, and you’ll have maxed out. It’ll never get any bigger than it is now as a percentage of final salary. You could retire tomorrow on two-thirds of your current pay level. Tell me,’ he continued, ‘where do you live?’

  ‘Cambuslang, sir.’

  ‘How do you get to work?’

  Provan reached out and took a handful of sandwiches. ‘Train usually, but sometimes Ah bring the car.’

  ‘But no free parking in your station, eh?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No. So retire and that travel cost is no more. Are you married?’

  ‘Technically, but no’ so’s you’d notice. She’s long gone.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘Jamie and Lulu. He’s twenty-six, she’s twenty-four. He’s a fireman, she’s a teacher.’

  ‘That means they’re off your hands financially. So why do you do it, why do you drag your shabby arse out of bed every morning for those extra few quid?’ He laughed. ‘Jesus, Sergeant, if you stayed at home and gave up smoking you’d probably be better off financially. You’re more or less a charity worker, man. You’re streetwise, so you’ll have worked this out for yourself. So tell me, straight up, why do you do it?’

  ‘Because I’m fuckin’ stupid . . . sir. Will that do as an answer?’

  ‘It will if you want to go back into uniform, as a station sergeant. Somewhere nice. How about Shotts?’

  ‘Okay,’ Provan snapped. ‘I do it because it’s what I am. Ma wife left me eight years ago because of it, before Ah’d filled up the pension pot, when Lulu was still a student and needin’ helped through uni. Sure, Ah could chuck it. Like you say, I’d have more than enough to live on. Except I’d give myself six months and ma head would be in the oven, even though it’s electric, no’ gas. The picture you’re paintin’s ma worst nightmare, Chief.’

  He paused and for the briefest instant Skinner thought he saw a smile. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘the big yin here would be lost without me. Ah’m actually pretty fuckin’ good at what Ah do. But why should Ah go and advertise the fact?’

  ‘The suit’s a disguise, is it?’

  ‘No,’ Lottie Mann intervened. ‘Dan wears clothes, any clothes, worse than any human being I have ever met. Even when he was in uniform they used to call him Fungus the Bogeyman.’ She dug him in the ribs with a large elbow. ‘Isn’t that right?’

  The DS gave in to a full-on grin. ‘It got me intae CID though.’ Then it faded as he looked the chief constable in the eye. ‘What you see is what you get, Mr Skinner. No’ everybody’s like you or even Lottie here, cut out to play the Lone Ranger . . . although too many think they are. Ah don’t. Every masked man on a white horse needs a faithful Indian companion, and that’s me, fuckin’ Tonto.’

  The chief picked up a sandwich, looked at it, decided that the egg looked a little past its best, and put it back on the plate.

  ‘Nice analogy, Dan,’ he murmured, ‘but it doesn’t quite work for me. I speak a wee bit of Spanish, just restaurant Spanish, you understand, but enough to know that “Tonto” means “Stupid”, and that, Detective Sergeant, you are not. I’m not a uniform guy myself, as the entire police community must know by now, so the wrapping doesn’t bother me too much as long as it doesn’t frighten kids and old ladies, but what’s inside does.

  ‘I took a shine to you yesterday, but to be sure you weren’t just the office comedian, I pulled your personnel file and the first thing I did when I got here today was to read it. As far as I can see the only reason you’re still a DS is because that’s what you want to be. You’ve never applied for promotion to inspector, correct?’

  ‘Correct, and you’re right, sir. Ah’m happy where I am. It’s no’ that I’m scared of responsibility, I just believe Ah’ve found my level,’ he paused, ‘Kemo Sabe.’

  Skinner chuckled. ‘In which case, Dan, I’ll value you for as long as I’m here. So, how much of the trail have you two sniffed out?’

  ‘Thanks to you, Chief,’ Mann replied, as soon as she had finished the last sandwich, the one that he had rejected, ‘we now know that the man who rented the Peugeot was the planner of the operation, Beram Cohen, the guy you’ve got in the mortuary through in Edinburgh.

  ‘We’ve established through HMRC that under the name Byron Millbank he’s lived and worked in London for the last six years, for a mail order company c
alled Rondar. It operates one of those teleshopping channels on satellite telly. Three years ago he married a woman called Golda Radnor, the boss’s daughter, we’re guessing, going by the fact that her name’s the company’s reversed, and eighteen months later they had a wee boy, named Leon Jesse. According to the General Register Office, Byron was born in Eastbourne thirty-two years ago, father unknown, mother named Caroline Anne Millbank, died on the last day of the last century.’

  ‘Pity,’ Provan muttered. ‘She missed the fireworks.’

  ‘I doubt if she was ever alive to see them,’ Skinner countered.

  ‘Do you think those records are faked, sir?’ Mann asked.

  He nodded. ‘And clumsily, by somebody with a knowledge of poetic history. I studied it as an option in my degree. Look at the names: Byron Millbank, out of Caroline Anne. Lord Byron the poet, and two of his most famous women, Lady Caroline Lamb and her cousin Annabella, the one he wound up marrying.’

  ‘Where does Millbank come from?’

  ‘That was Annabella’s family name, only it was spelled differently, as I recall.’ He laughed. ‘I don’t know where all that came from. I must be turning into Andy Martin; he’s got a photographic memory for everything. However,’ he continued, ‘there’s a second context, and one that’s more likely to be connected. It used to be a secret, but now one of the most famous buildings in London is Thames House, on Millbank: it’s the MI5 headquarters. Whoever set up Cohen’s identity practically signed their name.’

  ‘Aye, sir, but,’ Provan interposed, ‘how do you know that Cohen’s no’ the alias?’

  ‘I know because I’d never heard of him until Five told me who he was, and told me about his career in the Israeli military and then its secret service. I guess,’ he continued, ‘that Mr Millbank had a driving licence.’

  Mann nodded.

  ‘And a passport?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Neither of them more than six years old?’

  The DI opened the folder she had brought with her, searched through her notes, then looked up. ‘That’s right. Both issued a couple of months before he shows up on the payroll of Rondar, and on the same day.’

  ‘To make absolutely sure,’ Skinner instructed, ‘I want you to go to the DSS and see if his records go any further back with them. My dollar says they don’t. Before then Cohen was in Mossad, until he was caught up in an illegal operation and got thrown out.’

  ‘But what does it mean, sir?’ Dan Provan asked.

  ‘Probably nothing at all, as far as our investigation’s concerned. My reading is that British intelligence did the Israelis a favour by looking after one of theirs. They gave him a legitimate front and if he continued to take on black ops under his old identity, that was all right with them. They told me about one where he had used Smit and Botha; that was American-sponsored, in Somalia. I suppose he was what the spooks call an asset, but now it looks as if he wasn’t fussy who he worked for.’

  The sergeant blew out his cheeks. ‘This is a’ new stuff for us, gaffer. How do we go about investigatin’ MI5, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘You don’t,’ the chief told him. ‘Yes, Byron Millbank, he’ll need to be followed up, but I’ll take care of that. I want you two and your team to focus on Bazza Brown. Am I right in believing that the media haven’t made any connection between his murder and the Field assassination?’

  ‘So far they haven’t. As far as they know, Ronnie Edgar from Townhead’s the SIO on that case, and they’ve only just found out it’s Bazza that’s dead. They’ve been told we’re still tryin’ to identify the victim.’

  ‘Good. From what I’ve heard of Brown’s history, now that we have released his name, the first thing the press will do will speculate that it’s gang wars. That’ll be fine by me. Let them chase that hare as long as they can. Meantime, you need to look at his family and his associates. Do you know them?’

  ‘I know the main one; that would be Cecil, his brother,’ Lottie Mann replied. ‘Younger by two years, but they were as inseparable as twins.’

  ‘Cecil?’ Skinner repeated. ‘Basil and Cecil? Not exactly Weegie names.’

  Provan’s eyes twinkled. ‘Remember that old Johnny Cash song, about a boy called Sue? Their old man, Hammy, he had the same idea. He gave them soppy names, and the pair of them grew up as the hardest kids in Govan. The muscle was equally divided, but Bazza got a’ the brains. Ah’ve lifted Cec in my time. He’s no’ likely tae help us.’

  ‘Lift him again; tell him it’s on suspicion of conspiracy to murder Toni Field. If the brothers were that close, we have to go on the assumption that whatever the connection was to Smit and Botha, Cecil was part of it. See how he reacts under questioning. Whether he was involved or not, he’ll be thinking revenge. If you tell him there’s nobody left for him to kill, he might just cooperate.’

  ‘He might, sir. Just don’t build your hopes up, that’s all Ah’m sayin’.’

  ‘Understood. Now, what else do you have to tell me?’

  ‘The satnav in the rental car, sir,’ the DI said. ‘We’ve looked at it and it was used. Since they’ve had it, they’ve been to several locations. One was in Edinburgh, and another in Livingston.’

  ‘The first would be when they first met up with Freddy Welsh, their armourer, when Cohen upped and died on them. The second was when they collected the weapons from Welsh’s store. We know that already. Anything we don’t know?’

  She nodded. ‘We’ve found out where they were living. Their journeys were to and from a hotel out on the south side; it’s called the Forest Grove. It’s a quiet place, family run, with about a dozen bedrooms. They were booked in for a week, Sunday to Saturday, full board, signed in as Millbank, Lightbody and Mallett. Millbank said they were there for a jewellery convention, and that the other two worked for the South African branch of his firm. The owner knew him; he’d stayed there before, a couple of times.’

  ‘Do we have dates?’

  ‘Yes, boss. And yes, we’ve checked for unsolved crimes to match them. There were none, neither in Glasgow, nor anywhere else in Scotland. But there was a watch fair in the SECC each time, so it looks like he was there on legitimate business.’

  ‘Fair enough; good on you, for being thorough. Who paid the bill?’ he asked.

  ‘The man the hotel people knew as Lightbody. He settled up on Saturday lunchtime, then they left. The owner, his name’s MacDonald, remarked to him that he hadn’t seen Mr Millbank for a couple of days, and that his bed hadn’t needed making. Lightbody said that he’d been called away to a meeting in Newcastle and that he’d flown back to London from there. Mr MacDonald thought that was odd, for his daughter had serviced the room the first morning he was gone and his stuff was still in it. Thing about the bill, though, sir, it was settled in cash, old-fashioned folding money.’

  ‘New Bank of England fifties?’

  Mann’s looked at him, surprised. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Our investigation in Edinburgh last week, after we found Cohen’s body, led us to a kosher restaurant in Glasgow. The three guys ate there, and that’s how they paid. Does MacDonald still have the notes?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. They went straight into his bank’s night safe. I’ve got somebody contacting his branch though; they’re probably still there.’

  ‘Good. The notes from the restaurant are in Edinburgh. If we can match them up with these and they are straight from the printer, we might be able to trace them to the issuing bank and branch.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that have been Millbank’s?’ the DI pointed out.

  Provan shook his head, causing another micro snowstorm. ‘Ah don’t see that. If he’s had two identities, he’s going tae have kept them completely separate.’

  ‘For sure,’ Skinner agreed. ‘It may be that he had a separate Beram Cohen account, or a safe deposit box, but there’s also a chance the cash came from the person who bought the operation. If we can trace its movement in the banking system, you never know.’
r />   ‘If we can recover them,’ Mann said. ‘I’ll chase it up.’

  ‘Do that, pronto. Anything else from the satnav?’

  ‘Yes, one other journey, but I’m not getting excited about it. On Friday, they went from the hotel to the Easthaven Retail Park, not far from the M8 motorway.’

  ‘Indeed?’ the chief said. ‘Why are you writing that off?’

  ‘Because it seems they went there to shop and to eat, that’s all. We found receipts in the car for two shirts, and a pack of underwear from a clothes shop, and for two pizzas, ice cream and coffee from Frankie and Benny. The next journey programmed was the second last, the one to Livingston; the last being from their hotel to the car park next to the concert hall, where we found the car.’

  ‘Yes, you’re probably right; sounds like a refuelling stop, no more.’ He frowned. ‘Forensics. What have they given us?’

  ‘They say that Bazza was shot in the car. They dug a bullet out of the upholstery, and found blood spatters. Other than that, they’ve given us nothing we didn’t have before.’

  ‘Post-mortem report? What about that? Has Brown been formally identified? I don’t want as much as a scratch in him until that’s done. If we ever do put anyone in the dock for this, he can’t be allowed to walk out on a technicality.’

  ‘That’s done,’ she said. ‘His wife did it first thing this mornin’. Pathology’s not holding us up but still I’m not pleased about it. Either Dan or I will have to be there as a witness. That’s going to use up the rest of the day for whoever it is, with there being two of them.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘Yes, there’s Bazza, and there’s the one on Chief Constable Field.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Yes, I’d hoped that could be done yesterday, but it turns out it wasn’t.’

  ‘Bugger that,’ the chief grumbled. ‘What was the problem?’

  ‘The chief pathologist was away on what he said was “family business”, then this morning the so-and-so went and called in sick. I don’t fancy his deputy, not since his evidence cost me a nailed-on conviction in the High Court last year. I said I wasn’t having him do them, so they’ve called somebody through from the Edinburgh University pathology department.’